by Jack Kerouac
But I don’t understand politics, if this would fuck up Ferlinghetti don’t do it. I’m just telling you the news . . . they sense you will make money with Howl. Howl nowhere Whalen says in Grove recording because cut while [James] Broughton drones on and on, Whalen very mad. A million more things happened, I only wished you and Peter and Greg be here, not to mention Burroughs and Ansen, it was too too much, especially TV which killed me, big camera coming close, “Do you ever smoke dope?” “What you think of suicide?” final big question “What you seeking?” “I am waiting for God to show his face.” (which I meant, having thought of it just a week previous lying on sickbed in sad south). I flipt and had to cancel further publicity with Tex and Jix, Barry Gray, etc. on and on, Look, and finally tho I did manage two radio shows etc. etc. getting all involved with sexfiend radio man who finally made big drunken tape of me and him and Leo Garen explaining young cunts of Organo Street and that sexfiend reformed drunk rushes to Lucien to bring him into AA which is Lou’s I don’t want to hear it about dept. in fact a perfect raving scream of furiously funny events rivaling anything in Dostoevsky. Joyce and I in fact leave phone off hook all day till four because it was ringing every mad five minutes. Ed Stringham keep rushing up with mad “hipsters like Neal” who insist on driving me 110 miles an hour down Fifth Avenue, one of them Howard Schulman, poet, who took me to Lafcadio and we knocked on a evil door and somebody inside yelled at us to go away, two men, not Laff . . . don’t know where Laff is, except rumor he was in Fifth St. bookshop making speech (I think about us). Schulman like Ronnie Cherney if he don’t watch out but might be good. Incidentally I got roar drunk with John Wingate the TV interviewer after the show, we had to be dragt away from each other . . . so there . . . I mean, he wasn’t so evil, but an evil business TV. His girl interviewer wanted to know if I thought sex was “messy,” I said “Who said that?” she said “James Gould Cozzens” I said “No it’s gateway to Paradise.” “O I don’t think so” “Close the door and let’s do it!” I say softly, she turns color, “DID YOU FEEL IT?” I yell . . . big Zen. Saw Anton [Rosenberg] who had book covered with plain white paper, on one side, writ in ink, “ZEN” on other side “HOO”. He tried to drag me away from Don Allen to go get hi with him and Burnett. Anton being very friendly, calls me Playboy of “our” generation he said, and tried to sell me a car worth $20,000 as if I had that . . . “You haven’t got it yet” he shouted, in shop. Even Thurston Wallace I saw, pounced on me in a bar, gad I felt like Burroughs . . . didn’t even go to Columbia, of course, where West End Bar full of young kids reading Road . . . piles of fan letters, some from sixteen year old girls who saw me TV love me . . . what an opportunity for a Great Lover, which I’m not . . . I being quiet Sam Lunatic, actually quiet dreamy Hinayana coward . . . or, Hinayana of Avalokitesvsrs. Ralph Gleason of Frisco had better review of me than Rexroth! Best review of all was written inside Michigan State prison where all convicts dug Neal of course. Best review of all from Mississippi where a reviewer signed “O I wish I was young again”. Everybody talking about you . . . you must go to town now in Paris and get things done . . . money coming your way. Tomorrow I’m sposed to get Life spread of my own, but am getting so bugged I may finally get bugged and flip and tell Life fuck. Already had one hundred fifty color shots taken of me squatting on Sheridan Sq., talking, screaming to bums drunk in Bleecker St., etc. . . . also pictures in Harpers Bazaar followed by interview with intelligent middleclass lady who got drunk in my arms practically. I been getting fan mail from middleclass ladies and like, Cessa’s mother mad about book. My big satori was when Cessa screamed at me “Shut your big mouth” when I was being idiot at party upstate, a doctor wanted to give flu shots to her babies and I yelled, “Don’t torture your children” and doctor everybody shocked finally everybody drunk on the floor. Lucien and I were insane, I drove car myself thru the woods crashing thru little trees and over dumps . . . never loved Lucien mo . . . and he kept singing “Getting to know you”. And I thought (thru all this) of Burroughs all the while. I delivered manuscript to [Donald] Allen, separated Word from rest of manuscript for him to start on. I made big friends with Mr. Von Hartz.128 Lemme know about Paris as soon as shock wears off and you quiet somewhere, for sure if movies buy I go see you this winter rather spring, May, then you could wait confidently there for my temp. support. Write. Many more things happed but I save it for next time.
Jean-Louis
Allen Ginsberg [Amsterdam, The Netherlands] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., Orlando, Florida?]
Amsterdam Amer Express
Oct 9, 1957
Dear Jack:
Received your October 1 wave of beauty crashing over you in America—reading left Gregory exhausted, universe turned sweet for Peter. I thought what inevitable mad dream of life we’ve turned up. SAVE YOUR MONEY!!!!!! God knows what oblivion we’ll wind up in like unpopular Melvilles when Russia gets to Moon and world is bugged with US! (last nite in great calm queer club, men dancing, I thought, Gregory in fact thought, he heard Bill Haley R&R singing “Little Rock, Little Rock, Little Rock, Little Rock, Have Yourself a Ball”). Yes we are sleeping in Greg’s bed in nice room in Amsterdam, we cook steaks and eat mad Dutch bread and Swedish bread and Gregory writes mad poems “O People O My people / something weirdly architectural / like a rackety cannibal / came to Haarlem last night / and ate up a canal” and “Four windmills, acquaintanceships / were spied one morning / eating tulips” and we go around Amsterdam in mists by vast museums full of Vermeer bugging the Dutch with insane demands that they join us in eating canals. Stayed up all nite last nite in Paris in Les Halles meat and truck butchery writing big meat poem about trucks full of lungs, ending “Fellow Conspirators, Eat.” And here last night we got drunk and wrote huge chain poem manifesto of our demands for the coming moon—very beautiful lines, dozens of small notebook pages, Peter blowing: “I can’t wait till when I get to the moon till I see thereon the round plain the naked human gazelle crying with long hair and high bony cheeks running 50 mph like a jeep over nowhere land after trout,”—and Gregory, “Nor can I wait to see the sad angel of streets in his own personal alley, hands to face, wings covering all, weeping his heavenly woe and lack of Ebbets Field scream.”
I sent Bill tonite a clipping from London Daily Telegraph, describing New Guinea Disease, “Kuru” or “Laughing disease.” Rare tropical disease perhaps Bill not heard of yet, closely related to Latah and Amok according to the paper, “Twenty natives are now virtually laughing themselves to death in Okana hospital . . .” Some villages are said to be full of “laughing men and women.” “This uncontrollable laughter is followed by exhaustion paralysis and death.” Gregory just now wrote the poem. I sending it to Bill, he should dig Gregory now. As epigraph to title page of Gasoline book, Gregory quotes Bill’s lines about “Gaming tables where games are played for incredible stakes.” I sent my intro to Don Allen to give you to read. As I said in card, write a note or page if want on Gregory and send it to Ferl to use also as preface or book jacket. His book is mad and perfect. God knows what will happen to poetry when that explodes and if Ferlinghetti takes your book. Give this poem “Zizi’s Lament” to [Donald] Allen.
Back to Business: on Bill’s manuscript I know full well how idiotic my letters to [Sterling] Lord sound but on such small details Lord builds his Paradise. He has two letters full of instructions. Well you take over there and I’ll work here. Philip Rahv of Partisan Review has a section (“The Market”, I think). Please call him up and find out what he’ll do. We read him some in Venice and he said he dug it, so Alan Ansen sent him that piece.
Wieners took and will publish one page. He might publish more if he sees more.
Mike Grieg should be able to publish a section.
Don Allen Grove etc. you know all about.
Combustion might spread a page but I not in touch. If you have time send them something.
The Needle, too, if still running?
It’s just a question of running around
talking to people. Probably New World Writing, if you can phone Arabell Porter. Use your imagination I guess. You must be busy to madness. Well, let me know what you think. I mention these small places so that at least tastes and sections can reach select audience and create subterranean fame and response for Bill.
Ferlinghetti once thought about publishing South American letters Yage section, as a small pocket book of prose. Well, he writes he would sympathetically read the manuscript to see if maybe a mad sixty page section, like “Market”, can be issued. I will put as much golden pressure as I can on him to do so. When NY people are thru, send him book. New Directions, this year’s annual no good, all foreign translations material.
Meanwhile in Paris, will find Beckett and see if he’ll help. Frechtman has it, but he’ll be only a bug on this. (He offers to try find you translator—maybe good idea, since he would care about literary stylistic matters, which might be neglected in ordinary commercial negotiations. In any case, no harm if you can send him a copy, either thru me or his address: 27 Rue de la Michodiere, Paris, France. He translated Genet and Guignol’s Band—so he might actually be helpful artistically—not a question of publicity, but getting inspired translation.)
I not received copy of “Three Stooges”, nor Road—send me also extra Road to put in hepcat American Jerry Newman bookstore Mistral window. If you got them. If can send any interesting mag or news clips—I see nothing—like oblivion.
No news on trial, tho I guess it’s over. Is Lucien carrying the story at all? I wish he would, his name’s out. [Henry] Miller attended trial—and later developments may wind up freeing Miller’s books—and maybe Bill’s—not inconceivable—maybe Ferl [Ferlinghetti] try other test cases in SF. Show Lucien this. Hello Lucien. Make Jack save loot.
All your mad news so fine. Write more details, O heroic! TV answers great—what’d you say on smoke dope?
Re Howl, Ferl sent me 100 dollars, has 4th printing, sold 5000 already, will sell more,—it’s circulating a lot. Could Viking or Grove actually do better? I wonder. However I don’t know. But City Lights took it, way back, and fought trial, and Ferl went into red once for it, so I have already told him I won’t go whoring around NY. Tell Lord, if he can reprint Howl itself (or any other poem) anywhere, and get me some loot—in Life (maybe Rosalind Constable would even back that you know) or Look (who knows?) or New World Writing (more likely) to do try do so and be agent if he cares and will. That won’t fuck up Grove, since their issue is over, and will only help City Lights sales. Anyway, tell Lord, and ask him to inquire around and think it over if he will.
I sent you big letter from Venice, about Europe, you get it?
I sent in Guggenheim—used references: Van Doren, Williams, Bogan, Rexroth, Eberhart, Josephine Miles, Witt Diamant, and you.
Would have used Cowley but didn’t know what he thought.
If can sell Hollywood god—good, but maybe hold out for real great fantastic original creative treatment—use Neal and me and you as actors—but anything so movie is pure, even if big commercial flop. Of what other use, and what other power, has Zen poverty—except to demand everything? Make mad bold history, O world smasher!
What and where the big final preachment?? You mention.
I know about Grove record nowhere. City Lights and Fantasy want me to record whole book in Paris and will issue great record when I do. Will do soon.
Beautiful line about being quiet dreamy Hinayana coward. What you hear from Neal? Write me in Paris, tell all, it’s so great. I’ll write soon. I wrote Bill your news. Goodnight.
Love,
Allen.
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., Orlando, Florida?]
Paris,
American Express, Ginsberg
October 16, 1957
Dear Jack:
Got back to Paris last nite, have nice warm room, large, with two burner gas stove, five floors up, 9 Rue Git Le Coeur, one block away from Place St. Michel, out window I can see Seine.
Peter’s letter tells details. It seems that Lafcadio is holed up in the Orlovsky chicken-shack, is flipping. Mrs. Orlovsky is also flipping. Who is worse flip we can’t tell since Laf doesn’t write. At any rate situation sounds very bad—i.e. we’re afraid from sound of letters that she’ll call cops and put Lafcadio in bughouse. (He’s probably flipping because she’s bugging him, won’t take care of him, trying to make him go see his father Oleg and threaten his own father for money, and wants him to leave.) (She on other hand is bugged with him, he’s flip, and she’s broke and in debt and probably frightened). Anyway big mess.
We figure we ought to do something because situation sounds like its getting out of hand and he might wind up being committed by her. Similar situations in past with other brothers, whom she committed.
Peter thinking of immediate return to states—if nothing else can be done, and if situation is as bad as above.
Therefore, if you can, will you investigate for us and see what you can do? Thing to do is go out there, see if she hasn’t already committed him, bring him to city (if he’ll go), get him a room and leave him enough money to eat. You can use the money you owe me to do that on.
I don’t know if you yet have enough money to do that—this is all hypothetical—we’re trying to figure a way so that Peter doesn’t have to return immediately.
Peter plans coming back in two months, before Xmas, in any case. If you can straighten out matters at least temporarily and solve this present crises, it might all blow over and be alright for Peter to stay here till then. If you can’t and the situation is still bad, he’ll leave for States immediately—get Embassy to send him back because of family emergency.
Sending this letter air special etc. I know the responsibility might bug you, it would bug me, the whole proposition.
I don’t know what’s up this week with you and what the pressure of other wild events is, and if you are in a position to do anything anyway.
If you can try, please go out there with one of the aspiring hot rodders immediately, and write us what’s up.
If you can’t do anything, please write back, immediately, and let us know, so that we can make arrangements for Peter to return. What I mean is we got to hear from you in a matter of a couple of days—can’t afford to wait.
Normally I’d assume such matters settle themselves Buddhist-wise and no point doing anything (The sun rises and sets without my help)—but something real evil might happen to Laf, Beloved Laf, we’re worried.
But so, I mean, man, Jack, write us immediately if you can go out there, or not, so we can take big hysterical actions.
Peter worried, sad.
Everything else fine, we rescued Corso from Amsterdam, had a three week ball there. Saw [Barney] Rosset today, he’s in NY by time you get this letter. Saw Frechtman, he hadn’t even read Burroughs manuscript. I took it back and have Beckett’s address and will take it to him tomorrow. KiKi129 was stabbed to death in Spain by jealous orchestra leader, says Bill. Jane Bowles flipped and is in English Hospital. Bill writing more. I wrote you the other day. Gregory’s book will be great. My family saw you on TV and said you talked about Howl too, great. Case is won I hear, headlined in Chronicle. I’m writing big poem to rest of Universe, now that we are out of Earth—biggest news event (tell Lou) since invention of Fire. Do you realize we’ll soon (ten years) be on moon, and in our lifetime get high with brother Martians? There’ll be others out there, and we’ll reach them, I’m certain—and our poems too—I go rewrite Whitman for the entire universe—have big poem started. Other night in Amsterdam I looked at moon with new eyes.